Song of Myself
by HandsAcrossTheSea
Summary: You know how the saying goes - if you want something done right, you have to do it yourself.


This time, thunder shakes loose dust from the ceiling. Sam feels tiny bits of plaster dust his hair like moldy snow, prompting him to run his fingers through it and shake it loose. It's greasy from three days of not washing it, so a little gun oil certainly isn't going to hurt.

It's the fourteenth time in the last twenty minutes he's heard thunder but no rain. It's no surprise, though – for February, South Carolina ia surprisingly humid. They're in Beaufort, not far from the Georgia state line. The swamps around here are littered with spirits of all stripes, and he and Dean have been on a four month spree of taking care of business. (Christmas was weird – it was eighty degrees and they had hot wings, so it felt more like Independence Day.) Oh well – most people don't spend the holiday chasing ghosts. Of course it worked out in the end – no one was out and about to question why they were both trekking through the countryside with EMF readers.

Sam sits down his Beretta and picks up the Magnum he's recently acquired. Dean personally doesn't care for it (no pistol should have that much fucking kick, Sammy) – yet Sam loves it. The weight, the heft, the wonderfully loud sound it makes when it fires – it's an almost erotic thrill. Sam of course hasn't let this be known to Dean – he's not about to tell his brother he has a gun fetish. Which he doesn't. He just really, _really_ likes the Magnum.

He makes sure to be careful as he takes it apart, watching his own fingers as they delicately slide metal from metal; they bear far more scares than normal, his calluses harder than ever. Digging graves, sometimes three a night, will do that to you. He's covered in bruises in various states of healing from the shoulders down, all of them a result of something different. His bones kind of ache but it's not a serious injury ache – it's the ache too much work and not enough sleep and yet… Sam's happy. It's _routine._ Sam likes routine. He likes that Dean and himself have been getting along famously for a _really_ long time now (there's no end to local honeys for Dean to fall into) and as a result, it's been peaceful, almost. Save for the whole continually chasing ghosts thing, of course. Even so, they've been doing this for so long that it's not exactly difficult. Ghosts all over the world go out in the same way, you just have to light 'em up faster than they do the same to you.

Sam chuckles to himself and stretches, the barrel and trigger guard in both hands above his head. He's been hunched over for far too long, his mind set on this one thing. Dean's been gone for hours now, since right before dark. Sam had been napping then and when he'd awakened his hands had been itching for activity – so this is what he'd chosen to do. Not a bad way to spend a night.

Thunder claps again, and this time the lights flicker as well. Hot on the last echoes of its mighty resonance, the deluge of rain finally starts to fall on the motel's roof. Sam pauses to listen for a moment, closing his eyes and envisioning the droplets as they tumble from fat, dark clouds. Within moments, the temperature in the room is actually going down. Yeah it belies just how fucking drafty the place is but hey, it's not like-

A tile gets jarred loose and down it comes on Sam's head.

Sam drops the pieces of the gun he's cleaning and moves, holding his head and swearing.

"What, is it gonna start leaking, too?"

Lo and behold, he hears water hitting some surface in the room. Quickly he checks to make sure it's not on either of the beds; blessedly it's not. He looks up at the hole now in the ceiling – no water comes through it, thankfully. Still rubbing his head he goes to the bathroom and there it is, a steady drip-drip-drip into the bathtub. Sam frowns at the noise it makes but hey, at least it's in a logical spot.

"Fucking asshole nature…" Sam grumbles all the way back to his chair, dusts off the plaster, and then resumes his seat.

Soon the rain fades into the background and the only sounds Sam becomes aware of is the tick of his watch and the soft clinks of his gun as he picks up the pieces, cleans them, and then puts it back together, satisfied with his work. Dean likes to see how fast he can go with cleaning and stripping; Sam enjoys taking his time, the artful patience it requires. Sam takes care of his tools, always.

He's unscrewing the cap of the gun oil when thunder booms so loudly that the air in the room may as well have compressed; Sam startles and his fingers squeeze, making oil squirt out and coat his fingers. The bottle slips out of his grip and ends up on his foot, thankfully mostly upright and not leaking out over the skin of his bare toes.

"Great," Sam mutters. He uses his left hand to pick up the bottle and then gingerly sits it down, picking up his cleaning rag to wipe his fingers off. The rag is already covered in grease and dirt, so it's not to much avail. Sam sighs and gets back up, the leak in the bathroom ceiling louder than before as he walks in and turns the light on. He won't be surprised to find the damned place caved in in the morning when he goes to take a shower.

Sam absently scratches his chest with his oil covered fingers – reflex, Sam realizes too late – before he sticks it under the hot water and starts to scrub. While he washes his hands, he looks at himself in the mirror and takes a quick stock of himself.

Lately (as in the last month) he's been sporting some very serious scruff – like, Blue Steel level scruff. That's what happens when you just don't give a fuck about shaving every day, too tired and achey from banishing poltergeists from this particular plane of existence. Sam kind of likes it, save for it being occasionally itchy. Yeah it's an opportunity for Dean to call him "Sasquatch" or "Grizzly Adams" even more but hell, Sam just doesn't want to shave every time his hair starts to grow. He's a guy, and guys grow hair. (And it's not like Dean hasn't had the occasional beard-growing phase, either.)

He shuts the water off (the oil will just have to come off in its own time because seriously, you could lube the Space Shuttle with this shit) and runs his fingers over his cheeks and jaw, feeling the softish hair that darkens his face. At least it grows in evenly, and not all patchy like Castiel's nominal attempts at a beard. (You'd think that as an angle he could make that happen – alas, he cannot.) Sam smiles at the memories of his friend's frustration and subsequent, grudging mood after he shaved it off.

His neck bares scars and marks from one thing another, some of them so faded that Sam doesn't even remember what they came from; others are still fresh, mostly from having to go through a window the week previous. He swallows and watches his Adam's apple bob up and down, humming a little as he feels the vibrations in his throat. Sam won't lie to himself – he likes the fact that he has a loud, deep voice.

Grinning a little to no one but himself, he shifts his gaze to his chest. He's wearing a gray tank top, so he can see a good deal of his pecs, his anti-possession tattoo half-hidden under it; when he was younger he had little to no chest hair but now, he has a light dusting of it that he's more than a little proud of. It's never going to be thick like a coat of fur (which Sam is okay with) but Sam likes it, and the last few of his mostly forgotten hook-ups had run their fingers through it as they'd sat on his cock.

Sam doesn't realize he's been caressing his chest until he catches his eyes in the mirror and through his shirt can see that his nipples are now hard. He winks and shrugs at himself, then looks back down at his body.

He grabs the hem of his shirt and lifts it up, sticking the bottom of it in his teeth. He checks out his abs, the marks he's collected over the years faded in various shades of white and pink. Some are hard to tell that they even exist, others – like the ones on the upper half of his body – fresh enough that Sam knows exactly what he did to help them heal up.

Sam flexes his stomach and out the muscles pop; since the beginning of the year he's started to develop one _hell_ of a six pack, and they will only continue to get better. He's been trying hard to take extra good care of himself – he does remember the intensive routine he started when he was soulless, and it had made him look better than he ever had – and it's been paying off. He watches the muscles ripple and move for a couple more minutes, running his fingers over them and taking a great deal of comfort in the simple happiness of being whole and intact when he should have been long dead.

That and they look really fucking good.

Sam exhales, slowly, watching his muscles move as his lungs deflate. Tired of holding his shirt in his mouth he strips it off and drops it to the floor. He turns around and then looks behind him, and just for the hell of it, flexes his arms up and with them, his back.

Every fucking muscle stands out, big and impressive. Sam has never claimed vanity as one of his traits but he won't deny that he's in incredible shape – it's as much a necessity for the job as it is his own personal standard for himself. Sam rolls his shoulders and flexes a little tighter; at last measurement, his biceps were almost seventeen inches around at full flex. Kind of big for him but grave digging every night for hours on end kind of makes you ripped.

He stops just short of whistling at himself and goes back to washing his hands. He shakes his head and lets his hair fall forward and when he's finished and his hands are dry, pulls it back and finger combs it. He broke his last hair tie a couple days ago, so he lets it stay loose.

Sam is about to leave the bathroom when he decides to have a look at the rest of himself because why the hell not – he's the only person here right now anyway.

Feeling just a touch narcissistic, Sam unbuckles the belt of his jeans and slowly slides it out of the loops; his Levis always ride low, and even with the belt on they're just above his pubic hair. When he's no longer wearing it, his jeans dip and show him the waistband of his underwear – today he's wearing Hanes, this pair so faded that he can't really make out the lettering on the band any longer. He has more in better shape yes but there hasn't been anyone in a long time that he's been trying to impress, so comfy and worn-in it is.

His fingers are still a little slippery from the oil as he teases the button from its hole and opens up; the zipper goes down with far less protest. Down go his jeans and underwear at the same time and he's careful as he steps out of them, tossing them in the same direction as his shirt. He stands back up and runs his hands down his sides, down the sharp, dark v of his abs, and stopping at the tops of his legs. Goosebumps have risen in the path of his fingers and Sam shivers a little before he continues his inspection.

His treasure trail is darker than ever and it goes all the way down to his pubic hair, both being two shades darker than the hair on his head. He had trimmed his pubes a week ago, so they hair is still mostly neat, only just beginning to attain any bushiness. He'll give it a couple more days before he takes his trimmer to it again – it's not like there's anyone to complain about hair in the mouth during a blowjob anyway. Sam's more than okay with that.

Down his focus shifts, and his gaze lingers this time.

Sam's cock has been big ever since the tail end of middle school, and it had been kind of a nightmare at the time. He'd been seven inches by the end of eighth grade and by the time he'd hit his sophomore year of high school it had surpassed eight; Sam had stopped measuring after that. Stares in the locker room and his few abortive attempts at sex during that time hadn't exactly made him feel good about his endowment. In fact, he kind of wished he had grown into himself faster than he had. Dean had always told him to be happy – _most guys would kill for tackle that big, Sammy_ – but Sam… hadn't been. It had taken a good long time before he'd been comfortable with himself in that regard. Not until Jess and some more stability in his life had that happened.

Now of course, Sam just has himself to worry about.

He's thankful that he struck that happy medium between grower and shower; at least half of him shows at all times, some days more depending on how hot or cold it is outside and when he gets hard, it's more than impressive. His foreskin shows just the very tip of his glans when he's soft; right now there's more than that since he's slowly starting to become aroused under his own scrutiny. Sam starts to reach for himself but thinks better of it, instead placing his hand back on hip.

Sam takes a breath as he watches himself swell, feeling the blood rush down. His cock fills up slowly, first leaning to the left before he's even three quarters of the way hard. His foreskin starts to slide back of its own accord, his glans too big to stay contained. Sam holds his breath as he reaches his apex, his cock straight as an arrow and pointing almost completely straight up; the head touches his navel and Sam finally wraps his fingers around himself, pumping his cock, very, very slowly.

There's a fat drop of precome at the slit almost immediately and Sam doesn't touch it, just strokes so that his foreskin comes halfway up the head and lets it grow; gravity will take care of the rest. He kind of forgets about looking at the rest of his naked body – but he knows the rest. Long, strong legs (even though he thinks his calves are too skinny) and an ass that he himself wouldn't describe as anything special but what other people have called "cute." Whatever – Sam doesn't spend a lot of time thinking about. He knows how to get to his prostate, and that's almost the entirety of where his concern begins and ends.

He turns around and leans against the sink, never taking his hand away. With his left he reaches down and tugs at his balls, rolling them between his fingers; each one is fat and hangs loose. When he's soft, the head of his cock doesn't even go past them. Annoying as hell when he runs but hey, that's what compression shorts are for.

Sam pinches at them and it makes more precome blurt out, finally making the drop that had been accumulating spill over and wet his knuckles. For as long as he can remember he's leaked _a lot_ – it's another one of those things that he didn't come to appreciate until later in life. He's got his fingers halfway to his mouth to taste when he remembers he's still got oil on them, even if it is mostly gone.

Like the thunder outside, an idea bursts into Sam's mind – and he's certain that this isn't one that the guys at Remington would have ever envisioned their product being used for.

Sam lets go of his balls and reaches down, gather up his shirt and jeans and walks out of the bathroom, his right hand still curled around his shaft. (He can hold his own cock if he wants to, dammit.) He drops his clothes on the foot of his bed and grabs the gun oil, cap still off the top of it, and lays down.

He gets his tank top and places it so that he's lying on the top half and his cock and balls are directly over the bottom – as crappy of a motel as it is, he doesn't want to ruin the sheets any further than necessary. Sam thinks about checking the warnings on the bottle about this sort of use but since it hasn't killed him yet from handling it as intended – and he also has it on Dean's dubious authority that you can totally use this to crank out if you need to. Yeah this is coming from the man who thinks burgers for most every meal are acceptable but Sam's too horny to give it too much more thought now.

A little bit is normally more than enough to lubricate the moving parts of a gun; the too much that Sam uses could probably grease a battleship out of hits slip. It's shiny in the lamplight on the fingers of his right hand, running down his palm and forearm because it's fucking oil. The sharp, sweetly mechanical smell makes Sam wrinkle his nose; he could stop but his dick is too hard to back down now.

Another pearl-size drop of precome has already gathered at the slit and that's enough to convince Sam that he's going through with this, no matter how ill-planned it might be. He grabs the other pillow and puts it behind his head, laid out nearly flat save for his head tipped forward.

Sam starts at the bottom and works his way up, coating his entire length with oil. He takes his time, his fingers getting tighter the closer to his head he gets. His foreskin closes over the tip and he breathes heavily, already sensitive. More precome seeps out and mixes with the oil; soon the mix is dripping down his balls. He takes those in his left hand again and resumes rolling and pinching, tugging, cupping – every time he does it, the heat in his belly is stoked a little more, burning hotter with every successive touch. Sam moans, his eyes closed as he strokes up and down, enjoying every second of feeling, his mind devoid of fantasy save for the singular focus of making himself feel pleasure.

The callouses on his hands make every movement more intense, especially at the apex of every stroke when he rubs his palm over the head; that makes his lower body twitch and nearly come up off the bed. Too much of that and he'll come sooner than he wants. Another stroke down and at the bottom he holds himself. He points the end of his cock towards his face and very, very slowly milks his cock, watching the precome leak out in a big drop and down it goes, making a heavy, thick string to his belly. Another comes out of its own accord, bigger than the last one. Sam watches as it starts to make a pool right above his navel, collecting in his abs before it starts to slide off.

Sam swipes his fingers through it and licks them clean, oil and all.

He's diluted salty today, having consumed little but water and protein bars the last few days. (He doesn't actually remember the last meal he ate.) That definitely explains why it's so thick today, almost ropey. Sam strokes halfway up and more comes out, still sucking on his fingers – now he's greedy for it, wanting to taste his own body.

Sam wipes his fingers on his tank top and lets the precome drip onto them, stroking just the bottom half of his shaft, relaxing and trying to ease out the flow as much as he can. Before long his fingers are slick and he brings them to his mouth, his tongue leaking each one until it's completely clean, stroking his cock the whole time. God, it's been way too long since he's done this – thank God the thunder had startled him.

He puts his left hand on his chest and rubs, his right going a little faster on his cock now. He keeps rubbing his palms over his nipples, hard and dark with arousal. He pinches one, then the other, moving back and forth until it feels like little electric shocks racing across his body. Each one makes his cock grow even thicker in his hand, makes his head feel light and his being warm. He's not far from coming now, can feel the sensations racing up from his toes. He chases it, his hand getting him there faster and faster.

"Fuck, oh fuck, fuck fuck-" Sam's breathing even heavier now, his mouth open and his chest heaving, his hips fucking up into the tight close of his fingers. He's lost in it now, the dam holding him back cracking apart with each passing second. He focuses on the head, short, sharp thrusts into his fist – where his foreskin is drawn back, that's where he feels the igniting spark and starts him burning, fast and hard and self-immolating.

The first spurt of come hits him square in the forehead, a great, thick rope of it. Two more follow, landing right in his mouth and it keeps going and going, all across his chest and stomach until he's pumped himself dry. It's bliss like Sam hasn't felt in a long time and as he comes down he's smiling to absolutely no one but himself, wringing the last few drops from his cock and exhaling.

His come isn't nearly as bitter as he thought it would be and he licks his lips while he grabs his shirt and wipes what he can off of his face before it drips into his eyes.

Right as he's about to wipe the rest of himself down, his phone buzzes on the nightstand.

"Hello?" Sam nearly drops it, his fingers still slippery with oil and come.

" _Are you doing anything right now?"_ It's Dean – who sounds surprisingly sober.

"Just… cleaning guns." Sam smiles at his own euphemism. "Something going down?"

" _Oh I went down alright._ " Sam can hear the grin in Dean's voice and even though he can't see it, Sam still rolls his eyes. "Gross – but seriously, what's going on?"

" _Well since you were imitating Sleeping Beauty pretty hard before I left, I thought I might see if you wanted uh… dinner._ "

Sam licks a stray drop of come off of his hand. "I could eat, yeah."

 _"What do you want_?"

"Hm… can you get sausage dogs?"

Sam grins to himself and starts walking to the bathroom to finish clean up.

"Wanna know what I love about Austin, Sammy?"

Sam's on his phone, flipping through pictures of naked guys and trying to telepathically touch his dick. He's finally got a good signal and dammit, he's wanted to look at dicks since he got up that morning.

Dean nudges him with an elbow and Sam finally looks up. "Hm?"

" _Hm?_ " Dean mocks him and raises an eyebrow at him. "I asked you a question."

Sam sees that his mission won't be accomplished right now, so he stows his phone in his pocket. "Yeah?"

"I asked if you know what I love about Austin."

Sam hadn't even realized they were in Texas. "Uh… lots of weird shit?"

"Exactly – and you never know what you're gonna kill here."

"So we're here and just waiting for something to gruesomely murder a citizen." Sam yawns and stretches as much as the narrow confines of the Impala will let him. "Not exactly a sound plan there, Dean."

"It's a great plan – and we get to do the whole 'keep Austin weird' thing while we wait."

"I didn't know that what was a 'thing' that you could do." Even talking to his brother doesn't make the boner he's had for an hour go down – it's like he's twelve again and there isn't a damn thing that can stop him.

Sam honestly doesn't have a problem with that.

"Damn right it is – all sorts of geeky stuff for you to get hard over, plenty of 'alternative' girls for _me_ to get hard over. Who knows, one might even like you."

Sam's kind of blushing right now, biting his lip at Dean's unknowing, accurate appraisal. "I don't _get hard_ over geeky stuff."

"Yeah, whatever Sammy – I've been on your laptop after you've watched porn. You have a MILFs with glasses fetish, and you know it."

Sam remains silent while Dean grins to himself – besides, that was _one time._ All of Sam's good stuff is on a hard drive that Dean doesn't even know about. Like hell he's going to tell Dean that his favorites mostly involve guys in thigh high socks and tight little asses. Not that Sam is _exclusively_ into twinks but they're up there on his list…

"Sammy, c'mon, I'm just busting your chops." Dean pats Sam's knee in apology. "Hell, I thought it was hot too."

Sam's half expecting Dean to next ask him if they can watch porn together – they're close, yes, but not _that_ close. "Glad to know we at least have the same taste in _something._ " Sam returns Dean's grin and tries to discretely adjust his boner – now he's got precome sticking to his thigh and pulling his leg hair. So much for that.

Dean looks at him for a moment, the car at a stoplight that's taking forever to change. "It's good to see you smile, Sammy."

Sam shrugs and tucks his hair behind his ears. "I've been doing okay lately, you know? Less crap going on up here." Sam taps his left temple to reinforce his point.

"That's really it, huh?" Sam can see that Dean doesn't fully believe him – and Sam really isn't sure if he wants to explain that a good part of his happiness lately has been due to his diligent attention to making himself feel good.

"Well… yeah."

"Uh huh – you've been getting laid more, haven't you?" Dean gets that gleam in his eye that Sam thinks should _not_ be there when he thinks about his brother getting some tail.

"Dean, stop it."

"You've been having sex when I'm not around."

"But you're _always_ around."

"Not always." Dean steps on the accelerator and they _finally_ move forward – Sam's just glad that there's now the distraction of driving.

"So what's been greasing your pole lately?"

Sam rolls his eyes and slumps in his seat. "Dean, this isn't a conversation I think we should be having."

"C'mon Sammy – I'm the one who bought you condoms for your first time – Magnums, I might add, so there's not really much you can hide right now."

Sam gets even quieter. "You're gonna laugh at me."

"Sam, that's a given anyway."

He's not wrong.

"Is it chubby girls? I dig that, I love some cushion for the pushin'. Hell, you might need that, given how-"

Sam speaks up before this conversation can get any more awkward. "I've been jacking off more, okay." Sam looks right at Dean and rallies his courage. "I've not been getting laid, it's just me, myself and I, and I'm okay with that because it feels really, really good and if you want to laugh, fine."

Dean doesn't say anything for a minute.

Two minutes.

Sam tries to disappear into his seat. He almost wishes Dean was singing along obnoxiously to the radio.

"I…" Dean looks kind of embarrassed – and Sam's not mad about it, either. "I mean, you know your own dick best, so…"

They're both silent all their motel.

Dean's treading lightly, looking at Sam, then his stuff, then back to Sam.

Sam drops his bag hard enough that Dean startles.

"What?"

"Stop being weird, Dean."

"I'm not being weird."

"You keep looking at me like I'm about to grow a second head or implode."

"You're imagining things." Dean fidgets with his bag and looks down. "I didn't mean to pry earlier, okay?"

Sam sits down on the bed and takes his boots off. "Prying is kind of what you do, though. But I'm glad you're…"

"Happy for you. I mean, I don't… do you need lube or anything, because-"

Sam chucks his boot at Dean's head and misses. "Dean, I'm not gonna start whacking off right now. And for the love of God, don't try to sneak around me – I've been masturbating in your general proximity for a long, _long_ time and you've not caught me yet."

"Yeah, but now I'm gonna be afraid to fall asleep because you're gonna be over there, in your bed, playing pocket pool."

Sam throws his other boot and this time, Dean has to actually dodge it.

"Stop throwing shit at me, damn." Dean harumphs and starts to angrily unpack, clothes and knives getting scattered across the floor.

"Stop thinking about me jacking off."

Dean's eyes go as wide as saucers. "What? No, gross, Sam I do _not_ think about you… just… that's nasty Sam." Dean doesn't say anything for a moment, and then looks back at Sam. "Wait, do you think about _me_ when-"

Sam throws his balled up sock directly at Dean's face and this time he finds his target – he earns a glare that could kill if he wanted it to. Sam just smiles and continues to remove his clothing.

Dean's still staring at him, too.

"I can leave, if you need me too."

Sam wads up his shirt and stuffs it in his bag. "Again, not what I'm doing right now."

Sam does stop short of taking his pants off though – mostly because he's still semi-chubbed and Dean doesn't need to see that. "Then what _are_ you doing?"

"There's a gym across the road and after spending three days in the car, I need to stretch. You're welcome to join me if you want to."

Dean makes a point of flopping down on his bed and picking up the remote to the tv. "Have fun, Ahhhhnold."

Sam takes his gym clothes to the bathroom and changes, now forever convinced that his brother is way, _way_ weirder than he previously thought.

He's about to pull his compression shorts up when his arm brushes his dick and it comes away sticky with precome. He doesn't moan but God, he can't remember a time in the last three weeks when he hasn't been wet or at least semi-aroused. He could rub one out right now, go to the gym and get high on adrenaline and the feeling of a good workout, and then come back and do it again in the shower while he's still floating.

The thought of proving Dean right is enough to make him stop, though – and Dean _always_ knows when he's guilty.

He finishes dressing and comes back out to grab his running shoes; Dean's TV watching has turned into Dean napping while Turner Classic Movie Channel plays "Casablanca" back at him. Sam quietly laces up his shoes, grabs his wallet and room key, and makes his way outside.

It's early afternoon and traffic is relatively light as he crosses the street, stretching his arms above his head and then digging a ponytail holder out of his pocket. The gym is one of those chains and Sam just so happened to come across a membership card someone had left behind in a motel they'd stayed in sometime before the aborted Apocalypse – it's survived, somehow, and Sam's been Leland Collins every time he's used one- they're all over the United States, so getting in is easy.

There aren't many people around at this time of day, so Sam has a lot of the gym to himself. He does two miles around the indoor track before he does another three on the treadmill, focused on nothing but listening to his veins hum with blood and putting one foot in front of the other. Running inside isn't nearly as fun as doing so outside but if Dean needs him, it's not like he's that far away.

For the hell of it, Sam throws in four extra sets on each part of his weights routine; arms, core, chest, back, and then legs last. He relishes in the feeling of sweat dripping down his back, making his t-shirt and sweatshirt cling to his skin and his shorts feel too tight around his legs. He keeps catching glances of himself in the long mirror that covers one wall of the weight room, reminding himself of that night when he spilled the gun oil. Just thinking about it makes him hard and he has to be careful to keep his legs closed as much as possible.

Sam drifts in his thoughts as he finishes his work out; lately he's been on a cycle of eat, sleep, hunt, read, jerk off, and repeat. The wall that Death put up has been holding well (and Sam's not exactly tried to pick at it – the less he does, the better.) It's not been an awful existence, even if he does know that it could all come to a halt very suddenly. Best not to worry – that Dean's job. Not that Sam doesn't , Dean's just better at it.

The Texas son beats down hard overhead when Sam leaves the gym, sweaty and flushed but not willing to become sedate yet. He'll let his arousal build some more before he gives himself over to it, allow it to become all the sweeter to drink from.

Besides, it's been a long time since they've been to Austin and Sam wants to explore a little.

He rolls up the sleeves of his sweatshirt after a while and takes his hair down, the ends sticking to his face and neck where he's still damp with sweat. He explores the street the gym is on and the next one over, just walking up and down and taking the city in; there are over nine hundred thousand people here, and the blend of them gives Austin a feeling that it's not quite like anywhere else in the US.

Before long he's a little closer to downtown , the streets a little darker, a touch narrower. Most everyone who catches his eye is ready with a smile or a polite "howdy" – the accents are thick here and Sam smiles back at each one. Dean was right – there _are_ a lot of girls here, and Sam entertains half thoughts of pressing his body to one, only for them to be dashed every time he sees a guy in tight jeans and boots and Sam finds himself thinking about they would looke like in _just_ the boots.

If he gets the chance, he's definitely finding some cowboy porn later tonight.

Noticing that it's been almost three hours since he left the motel and Dean's bound to be awake by now, Sam turns and heads back, walking a little faster than normal and wishing he'd brought his phone so that he could at least tell Dean not to worry. Ah well, he's more than capable of handling himself if he runs into trouble.

He's one street away from the motel when a neon sign draws his attention – in Old West style lettering it says "Buck's" and next to it are a pair of folded (and naked) legs, ending in cowboy boots, blinking away and enticing Sam to see what's inside the doors below the door front.

Sam's legs are already carrying him towards it.

Old wood paneling gives the shop a homey, old world general store feel save for the darkened windows. Sam expects a bar or maybe some sort of strip club – only to find that once inside, it's a sex store.

Lingerie for both men and women crowds the spacious floor in front and Sam notices a couple of other patrons browsing through the lacey collections; one of them looks up, an older lady who immediately starts to undress Sam with her eyes. Sam gives her a knee-weakening smile and runs his fingers over a sex red, almost see through negligee to his right and playing the lady's game, looks over at her.

Sam can see her legs wobble as if she was standing in front of him.

Most every sex shop has the same format, lingerie and less risqué items in the front, toys and porn in the back. Sam has no one to buy lingerie for (and doesn't wear it himself, though a man in male-intended panties does make his throat dry on occasion) so he heads to the back, careful to not brush against any of the merchandise if he can help it. It's likely to sell better _without_ his gym stink on it.

The back part of the establishment is equally prodigious in size and no separate sections for guys and girls. Sam walks past shelves of dildos (he's already got one he doesn't use but once in a while) and all sorts of fancy lubes; Sam's always been an Astroglide man, and an Astroglide man he shall remain. He's not really looking _for_ anything, just looking.

"You look like a man who needs a cock ring." A silky smooth, drawly voice comes from behind him and Sam turns, an _extremely_ attractive blonde man with tattoos on his forearms and a "Cocky" belt buckle appraising every inch of him. Mid thirties, button-down red shirt and those jeans… it's like he's the perfect amalgam of all the guys Sam has seen today.

Sam raises his eyebrows and puts his hands on his hips; fuck all if he's not subconsciously showing himself off a little. "And why do you say that?"

The man gives a little shrug and flashes Sam a genuine-as-can-be smile. "Because that" – he tips his head towards Sam's crotch "would probably look real good in one."

Sam wants to frown but goddamn, this man is pretty enough that Sam would show him whatever he wanted to see. "Is that how you pitch all of your products to customers, by eying bulges and ogling muscles?"

"Most of them – and it works, too." The name tag says Curtis Buck, Jr. – Sam couldn't imagine him being named anything else. "You see the shop still open, don't you?"  
Sam chuckles – he likes this guy, even if he is trying to sell him something. "So you're Buck."

"Guilty as charged – but Daddy was the first, and he sold car parts, not sex toys. Guess which one is still around." Buck tilts his head towards a shelf, gesturing for Sam to follow.

"Good point." Sam stops just out of reach from Buck and holy hell, the back is as good as the front. Buck must feel his eyes on him – in spite of his tight jeans, he still makes his ass flex enough that _Sam_ feels weak-kneed.

"Easy, partner – it's spoken for." Buck grins and turns around, presenting Sam with a small box. "Go ahead and open it."

It's a cock ring – but not of a kind that Sam has encountered before. It has two separate parts, one for his cock and one for his balls, a divider in the middle big enough that Sam can see how it could keep his hard dick at just the right angle.

"The Oxballs Cock Sling Two – it's the only one I recommend unconditionally, and you my friend look like you'd have a hell of a time with it." Buck stands back and Sam doesn't even care that he's being checked the fuck out right now – he's far more taken with imaging just how thick this would make him in his own hand.

Sam shoves two fingers through the top part- roughly the same width as most of his dick. "Does it come in a bigger size?"

Buck doesn't say anything, nor does he take the one Sam has from him. "Most guys like it a little tight – and since you're uncut, you should like that even better. Pulls the hood back real good."

"Wait – how did you…" Sam looks down and yeah, he's bulging a lot more than he thought.

"Darlin' I've been lookin' at dick since I was old enough to know what it was – but don't you worry about me. Is there anything else I could interest you in?"

Sam shakes his head and tries to pull his sweatshirt down further – it does absolutely no good. He pays Buck and is soon on his way, the cock ring in his pocket.

He still isn't jarred enough to not think about his purchase though. Hell the closer he gets to the motel, the faster he walks. He can feel that familiar weight in his lower body, settled and full and making him aware of his own body.

Of course Dean is still on his bed when Sam walks in, the laptop on his belly and his feet crossed – he doesn't look in the least bit worried as to where Sam was.

"You look comfy." Sam goes to sit down on his bed and take his shoes off, keeping himself bent so that Dean doesn't see that he's half-hard.

"And you look sweaty. Where've you been?"

Sam shrugs. "Around. Went for a little walk after the gym."

Dean turns his head towards Sam and looks at him like he's hiding something. "Whatever you say, bro – and while you were out sightseeing, I may have found us a case…"

Sam sighs to himself – looks like alone time will have to wait.

Their case had been a shifter.

Not only had he left ten bodies in his wake but he'd also been incredibly hard to find, to the point where he and Dean had had to split up to cover more ground. Two days practically non-stop in a city that had gone from relatively complacent to terrified had tried Sam's patience; it was pure fortune that he hadn't been stopped by any police, asking if knew anything about the serial killer on the loose.

Sam tries to keep that whole "monsters exist and they will kill you" thing under wraps. No need to scare people more than necessary.

Dean had decided to ride his post-hunt high with a girl and booze, so he'd gone to find exactly those two things. Sam just wants some peace and quiet and for the first time in years, actually takes a bath. The tub is a little small and he has to sit with his legs folded up but it feels amazing, the hot water soaking into his tired bones and muscle like the balm from Gilead.

And maybe he falls asleep in the tub a little – but that's no one's business but his own, and only wakes up when he realizes the water is cold all around him.

Since Dean likely won't be back until long after Sam's asleep, he doesn't bother with a towel after he's dried off, and even then isn't very thorough about that. It's neither hot or cold in the room, so even clothing can be optional right now. He lays down on his bed and exhales, closing his eyes and enjoying the feel of the memory foam mattress underneath him. It feels really, _really_ nice to not move for a while.

His hands are laying on his stomach, his right closer to his cock than the other. He runs his fingers over his treasure trail and along his hip, scratching his nails against his skin and making goosebumps rise in the invisible trails they make. His cock twitches every time he dips close – Sam doesn't open his eyes, just lets himself be awash in his own sensations.

He moves his fingers higher and higher, sliding up over his chest, his hardening nipples, caressing the lines of his muscles and then back down he goes, a little slower so that by the time he's back to where he started he's fully hard with precome glistening at the slit.

Sam uses both hands to pump himself, thrusting up off the bed and into his hands. He gasps, his grip a little too tight and holy _shit_ he's horny – hunting for two days had made him forget that but now there's absolutely nothing to stop him.

He finds himself thinking about Buck, about how fucking sexy he would look with Sam's bare cock deep inside him, how his tattooed forearms would strain and flex as he supported himself while riding Sam, that silky accent all ruined from his cock-raw throat, Buck's spit and lube wetting the way into his body. Sam opens his eyes and finds himself leaking like crazy all over his fingers – he pictures Buck licking it from the head of his cock as he strokes more out and tastes it.

Sam moans as he slides his own fingers into his mouth, jerking himself with the other hand while he sucks on them. He's so, so salty, not enough water and too much adrenaline. Oh well – the orgasm is going to be tremendous anyway.

Right as he's about to start again, he remembers his purchase from the other day, tucked safely in his bag with his tank top-cum-spunk rag. Sam rolls off the bed and snatches it from the ground, shoving his clothes and gear aside in his scramble to locate it.

They're exactly where they should be, and Sam's hands are shaking as he extracts them and resumes his place on the bed.

Sam has to stretch the cock ring out and keep it so all the way down his shaft- he can tell by just the way he's keeping it open that it's going to be deliciously tight and once it's on, he finds that he's correct. The pressure feels even better once he's got his balls through the bottom part, having no choice but to be grouped tightly next to each other. Sam tugs at them and pulls himself forward, inspecting how it makes his cock look even more huge than normal. He had also measure himself about a week ago – he's right in between eight and half and nine inches, and the ring definitely puts him at that magic number.

He's so busy checking himself out that he almost forgets what he was here to do.

Buck was right about it pulling his foreskin back- that whole area is completely exposed, and Sam takes advantage of not having to keep himself tugged down with one hand, teasing the pretty pink skin with his fingers, extra sensitive from it not normally being touched. Precome weeps from the slit of his cock and he uses it to make the glide across his skin easier. He moans and tosses his head back, his touch almost too much but fuck all if it's not _incredible_ \- Sam's glad that Buck talked him into buying this.

Sam had stashed his lube under his pillows the night before (in the hopes that he'd get to jerk off then) and pours a generous amount over his cock, watching it mix with his precome and drip down, down, down until it runs into his pubes. He keeps his tank top close by to catch any excess and once he's good and wet, resumes his two handed grip.

Buck enters his mind again, this time in the form of holding himself spread over the bed while Sam fucks him for all he's worth, his jeans around his ankles and that red shirt pushed up to his neck. Sam can just hear him moaning his name, his voice getting pitched higher and higher as he gets railed. Sam loves his boys like that, tight-assed and mouthy – and Sam's willing to bet that Buck would be the mouthiest of them all. God, he'd been cock-hungry the moment Sam walked into his store and had he not said he was attached…

Sam doesn't let himself complete the thought, instead refocusing on his fantasy of Buck's bubble butt being spread open by his ring fattened cock.

"Shit, you look so good on my cock, Buck…" Sam feels momentary embarrassment at letting his thoughts make themselves known outloud – but there isn't a soul around to hear him. He moans again, a little louder this time, fucking his fists and God he's close – he knew this wasn't going to last long, not after he realized how keyed up he is.

More lube, so much that it almost makes him drop the bottle and runs down the insides of his wrists. He licks his lips and looks forward, his cock red, the had flushed deep purple. His precome is non-stop, making his hands even sticker. He keeps catching himself on that space between his head and foreskin, bumping it over and over and over until it's too much-

And he comes.

It's really, really thick today and there's _a lot_ of it, smearing all over his belly and collecting in his abs. Sam wrings himself as dry as he can, gasping and writing as he finishes and slumps back, exhausted and happy. He tastes some of it off of his left hand while his right strokes out that last drop – his cock is still hard as a rock, the ring keeping him up. Sam is still head over heels for how tightly it fits, and he's swollen to his full size.

Sam sits up and grabs his laptop, looking up the address for Buck's store.

It's proper to send a guy flowers after you beat off thinking about his ass, right?

There's always a part of Sam that dearly misses California and every time he and Dean are heading in that direction, Sam always tries to stop in Palo Alto.

San Francisco isn't exactly the same but for now, it's as close as they'll get. Dean had insisted on seventy two solid hours of rest and recreation – and Sam had promptly agreed.

Late March means it's not exactly chilly but not exactly warm, either, so Sam gathers his jacket around him as he explores the streets. It hasn't changed much since he was last here with Jess his sophomore year; It's still vibrant, colorful, and weird – but that's okay. Sam loves places like this, where things aren't and never will be dull.

Sightseeing all day makes him thirsty and not long after nightfall, he and Dean rendezvous at a bar between Palo Alto and San Francisco called The Lost Lady – it had been one of Sam's favorite places to hang out during his college days.

"Okay – but were there actually any lost ladies here?" Dean takes a sip of beer and stretches back in the booth, waiting for Sam to answer.

"I didn't look into the background of the place – I just know the booze was – is – cheap and I always had good luck with hook ups here."

Dean raises his eyebrows like _oh really?_

"Before I met Jess and realized that I had some freedom, and no I'm not telling you anything about them."

Instead of pouting, Dean grins as big as you please. "So you _are_ my brother after all."

"I am _not_ a skeezeball like you can be – so don't even start."

Of course Dean starts.

Two hours later, they're still arguing about what makes one a skeeze and what doesn't. The argument is broken by Dean having to get up to pee, thankfully leaving Sam in peace.

The bartender, Maggie, approaches with a glass of whiskey, smiling at Sam. "Compliments of the gentleman at the bar – and it's good to see you again, Sam."

Maggie winks and walks away, her ample hips keeping that same sultry rhythm that was there when Sam was nineteen. There's only one man at the bar right now – and how Sam missed him…

He's Sam's height, with long black hair and broad shoulders. Dark brown eyes and a nose that some would call too big but Sam finds to be alluring make his face… striking. His lips – full and beautiful (dick sucking lips, if he wants to be filthy about it) curl up in a smile as Sam catches his eye and somewhere in the back of his mind, Sam knows who this is. A face in a crowd sort of knowing, but in the far recesses of his memory Sam is _positive_ that he's seen this guy before.

Which is why Sam is up and walking towards him with his beer and whiskey in hand.

The man stands up when Sam is only a couple feet away, smiling a bit wider as Sam puts his drinks on the bar and takes his hand in greeting.

"Of all the people in the world, you were the last I was expecting to see here." Fuck, his voice is nice and deep, too. Sam doesn't respond for a moment, torn between listening to his voice and trying to place him in his past existence.

"You're… you're not law enforcement, are you?" If he is, Sam's walked right into the trap – and he's not really sure that he cares.

He chuckles and pats Sam's knee. "Hardly – and I'm starting to think you don't remember me, do you?"

 _His fingers are so warm._ "See, that's the thing – I know I've seen your face but…" Sam can feel himself getting embarrassed – and this guy is decidedly _not_ someone who he wants to do that in front of.

"I'm Dominic del Monaco – we went to school together."

 _Of course._

"I don't remember you in any law classes."

"Because we only had gen eds together – I was a music major." Dominic resumes his seat and gestures for Sam to do the same. "I play with the San Francisco Symphony Orchestra now, section violin."

Sam whistles. "Glad to see that at least someone's career worked out."

"What do you mean?"

"Well after Jess… died… I kind of… I guess needing time to think turned into drifting for oh, six years." Sam smiles, trying to keep the sadness from creeping into his voice.

"Nothing wrong with finding yourself." Dominic takes a sip of beer and Sam watches as those gorgeous lips curl around the mouth of the bottle – and of course Dominic notices.

Dominic sets the bottle down and relaxes his posture a little more. "You know, you kind of inspired me back then."

"How so?"

"I always saw you at the gym or out running – you had this… focus, like you didn't care that there were other people around, you were just there for you. Not like the frat boys who'd go and preen for no other reason than for people to look at them." Dominic shrugs and Sam leans in a little more – he's known this guy on a personal level for the grand total of five minutes and he already wants to kiss him right into the ground.

Dominic continues and runs his fingers through his hair; definitely those of a musician, long and supple and agile. "I guess it was really humbling, to see that. To see you." He nods towards Sam's body, clad only in a t-shirt under the open front of his jacket. "And it looks like you've kept it up, too."

Sam laughs and turns his body towards the bar, causing their knees to bump. "It's good therapy. I mean, in my line of work it's hard to find time to sit down and talk it out, so I guess… it's like conversing with yourself without saying anything." He takes a swallow of whiskey; good, strong stuff that burns pleasantly all the way down. "Not that I'm trying to lay any sort of weird philosophy on you."

"Of course not – but I get what you're saying." Sam watches Dominic's fingers again, making circles in the moisture from his glass on the bar top. "You know, you're just as whole in person as I imagined you to be."

Sam feels himself blush, looking Dominic in the eye. "Not often that people imagine _anything_ about me."

Dominic smiles, and Sam feels his heart race. "Think it's pretty nice that for once, a fantasy comes true. That surely doesn't happen often."

Sam looks away, beckoning Maggie for a glass of water. "Fantasy, huh?"

Dominic suddenly looks embarrassed. "Ah, I may have misspoke…"

"No, not it's… it's fine." Sam turns back to him and brings his dimples out. "I think I know where you're going. I mean if I'm wrong, you can tell me so." Sam catches Dean – long back from the bathroom now – over at the pool tables, grinning at Sam and clearly enjoying watching his exchange with Dominic. Dean purses his lips and makes kissing motions at him, all the while gesturing at Dominic – so that clears up how _Dean_ feels, at least.

"And where do you think I'm going, Sam?"

Instead of saying anything, Sam just leans forward, touching Dominic's left cheek as he brushes their lips gently together. It's not a full kiss really, just enough to make his intentions clear. He lingers only for a moment before he pulls back – Dominic, for his part, looks extremely pleased.

Behind him, Sam sees Dean trying to control his laughter, either because he's happy for Sam or because he's making fun of him.

Dominic opens his eyes and licks his lips where Sam had just been. "Glad to know we're on the same page."

This time, Dominic kisses Sam.

He tastes like whiskey and cinnamon, not to mention that he smells, really, really good. There's an artfulness to the way he kisses, and Sam is the canvas he's going to paint on. Sam can't remember the last time he was kissed like this, so tenderly and sincerely. He kind of wishes he'd talked to Dominic years ago, even if had been just a simple hello, _something_ to have this sooner.

Sam opens his mouth further and Dominic's tongue dips in, wet and smooth and really kind of perfect. Sam slides forward on his barstool, wanting to drink from the warmth that Dominic is radiating. Dominic's hand cups Sam's face the same way that Sam did to him a moment ago, feeling along his stubble-covered jaw and into his hair.

When the kiss breaks, Dominic rests his forehead against Sam's. "Can I confess something to you?"

"Don't think I'm in a position to say no, Dominic."

"Please, call me Dom – and I've always wanted to jerk off with you. Can we do that?"

Sam has to wonder for a moment if the stars are lining up specifically for him. "Is that all?"

"Yeah – I mean, if you're looking for more then _maybe_ but… just that Sam, it's all I want."

"Can I kiss you more?"

Dom answers that question with another one.

Sam makes eye contact with Dean after he's settled his tab, mouthing _see you tomorrow_ and Dean raises his beer bottle in a salute.

Dom holds his hand as they walk back to Dom's place. He lives less than half a mile away, in a stylish apartment building that Sam doesn't remember looking so swanky during his time here.

"They remodeled not long after you left – I was one of the first residents." Dom squeezes his fingers, his breath making clouds in the now chilly night air. "Thought about taking you up here more than once."

"You really should have said something, Dom."

"I was nervous – but now…" Dom stops to kiss him again and Sam puts his hands on his hips, reveling in the feeling of Dom's hard, solid body against his. He moans when Dom grinds their hips together – Sam's been hard since Dom put his tongue in his mouth and now he _definitely_ feels it.

"We need to get inside – _now._ "

Sam doesn't have much time or inkling to notice the décor – but it's exactly what Sam expected. Dark woods, leather furniture, shelves teeming with scores and music. A baby grand piano stands in one corner, a violin case open on its lid. He catches "Brahms" on the piano's music stand before Dom is sliding his hands into his hair and drawing him into another kiss.

Sam backs them towards the couch, and Dom goes down easily, his hands running all over Sam's back and shoulders. Another kiss and Sam already knows it's going to be hard to leave in the morning because Dom is _easily_ the best kisser Sam's had the pleasure of experiencing in a while – and it makes him very, very wet.

Dom notices how Sam is shifting his hips – like he's trying to unstick his dick from his leg. "You too, huh?"

"Yeah – I kind of precome a lot and this… this does it more than anything."

Dom smiles up at him and cups the back of his head. "Then why should I stop?"

Their clothes end up in a trail from the couch to the bedroom, and by the time they reach Dominic's bed, they're down to just underwear – tight little yellow Andrew Christian briefs for Dom and Saxx boxer briefs for Sam. From his bulge, Sam can tell Dom is good-sized – but Dom hasn't made any motion to finish stripping Sam, so Sam in turn will keep his hands to himself.

Dom caresses Sam's hips and spreads his legs for him. "Are you ready?"

Sam nods. "Just hope I live up to the fantasy, is all."

"Oh, trust me – this is already going way, _way_ better than I could ever imagine." Dom hooks his fingers in Sam's waistband and off they come.

"Holy _shit._ "

It's simultaneous – Dom is almost the exact same size as Sam, uncut as well save for his longer foreskin. They both spend a minute admiring each other, looking back and forth between eyes and cock – Sam's smiling as Dom takes him in hand and just holds him.

"I thought you'd be big but… not this big." Dom's fascination is genuine, and Sam sits back to let him explore as much as he wants. "And you're body… Sam, thank you for making a lonely man very, very happy."

Sam laughs and pulls Dom to his knees. "And we haven't even gotten to the good part yet."

"Speaking of that…" Dom rolls over and grabs a small box out of the bottom drawer of his nightstand – Sam spies a couple dildos and condoms there before Dom shuts it. "Do you use cock rings?"

"I just bought one not long ago, actually."

Dom's look turns downright gleeful. "Good – because I've got one I want to see you in."

It's the exact same thing as Sam has, save for it being bright blue. Sam puts it on immediately and Dom does the same, his fire engine red. It has the same remarkable effect as it does on Sam and he kisses Dom slow and deep while he strokes his cock, getting him as hard as possible. Sam will honor Dom's request – if all he wants is to jerk off, then Sam is more than okay with that. Hell, he's gotten plenty good at it lately, and Dom certainly touches him like he does too.

Dom lays back on the bed and gives Sam another sultry look that make those beautiful, dark eyes seem as deep as oceans. "C'mere."

Sam gets as close as he can, his arm around Dom's shoulders. "Like this?" Sam's more than willing to fulfill whatever Dom wishes.

"Uh…" Dom shifts down a little, turning in slightly towards Sam and throwing his leg over Sam's. "Perfect."

Sam notices that they're touching as much of each other as possible. "I promise I wasn't gonna leave, Dom."

"I know – but I want to have as much of this-" Dom gestures at Sam's body – "as possible before you _do_ have to go."

Sam turns his face to Dom's and kisses him, his grip steady on Dom's thick, curved cock. Dom moans into his mouth and reaches for Sam, holding him tight as he strokes. The ring doesn't allow his foreskin to move much and he winces, making Dom stop.

"Here – let me fix that." Dom goes back into his drawer and grabs a half empty bottle of Astroglide. "Never used anything else," Dom says as he slicks Sam up.

"Me neither." Sam shivers as Dom works it into his skin, wetting him from tip to base. It's only fair to reciprocate and soon Dom's cock glistens the same as Sam's.

"Better?' Dom teases along the underside of Sam's cock with his fingertips, following the vein up and down.

"Yeah – and you're… God, you're good at that."

Dom bites at Sam's earlobe. "You're a pretty good subject to test it on – most of the time it's just me." Dom kisses behind Sam's ear and nuzzles his hair. "I love to edge after a performance, riding that high of applause and sound – I get hard the moment I step off stage, already anticipating how good it's going to feel when I get home."

Sam imitates Dom, slow and steady on his dick – precome drips out over Sam's fingers, and he can't resist the urge to taste him.

"You taste really fucking good, Dom." Sam kisses it to him and Dom licks Sam's pre up, combining them together. Dom moans so low in his throat that Sam feels it settle into his bones, making him break out in goosebumps all over. He hooks his ankle with Dom's and brings him closer, inhaling Dom's scent, tongue fucking him good and deep.

It's unspoken but every time Dom strokes him to the edge he backs off, their mouths never not touching. Sam knows he constantly gets Dom close too, his cock heavy and thicker than thick in his hand, precome and lube making the only sounds in the room aside from their breathing. Dom plays Sam expertly, throwing as much commitment and careful technique to that as he devotes to Tchaikovsky – Sam can tell that Dom isn't holding anything back. Dom pulls sensations out of Sam that Sam didn't even know he was capable of feeling, making that build to orgasm so long and acute that Sam feels light headed, as though he's going to float away were it not for Dom's hold on him.

Dom finally breaks that long, long kiss – but only slightly. "Get on top of me, Sam."

Sam goes willingly, his thighs shaking. "Okay?"

"Perfect."

Dom takes their cocks in his hand at the same moment he kisses Sam again – and as though he's known it the whole time, Sam can feel the finale coming.

It's all white heat and light, a steady roar crescendoing louder and louder in his ears. Dominic drives at exactly the right tempo and it settles fast, each touch getting more feeling, more precome, more _everything_ out of Sam until it's all one continuous, loud chord – Sam hears nothing but that as he explodes over Dom. He comes all over his body, his neck, his face, even the headboard.

The music stops and Sam doesn't see anything but black and Dom's strong, warm arms going around him.

Those same arms are around Sam the next morning, Dom's front to his back.

He still feels completely drained but the contentment and peacefulness it brings to him aren't like anything he's experienced in recent memory – or ever, really.

Dom feels him stir and he hugs Sam to his chest.

"Good morning, Sam."

Sam smiles and turns over on his back, thumbing over the pillow creases on Dom's face. "You are one _hell_ of a… fuck, I don't even have a word for what that was last night."

Dom laughs and rubs noses with Sam before he kisses him. "We didn't actually do anything that fancy – but I'm glad that all of this time I've spent jerking off while thinking of you was worth it."

"I'm just glad I lived up to the hype. I uh, didn't get any in your eye, right?"

Dom shrugs and kisses his chin. "If you had, it's nothing I wouldn't have been used to. Trust me, I get explosive too – I actually came with you, you just looked a little… overwhelmed."

"Because you give a really, really good handjob. Do all the guys you do that to come like that?"

Dom chuckles again and yeah, Sam could spend a long time listening to that laugh. "Please – I don't normally have time to seduce anyone." Dom pillows his head on Sam's chest and traces the edges of his pecs and bicep. "I'm just glad I caught you on an off night."

"You know, I do have a couple days left in town before I have to leave – you don't mind if I stick around and we get to know each other a little more, do you?"

Dom's smile is so bright that honestly, the sun's rays coming through the windows can't quite match it.

Sam doesn't remember heat like this in Sioux Falls.

Out of the many, many summers he spent here as a child and teenager, it was never ball sticking to your thighs hot. No, this is the sort of heat that's only written about in Tennessee Williams plays.

Dean and Bobby had left Sam to his own devices the week previous; they'd gone to Bobby's cabin, making the trip under the justification of making much needed repairs. Sam suspected that they were going solely for the purpose of drinking and fishing. Sam had had no issue with staying behind to keep an eye on the house, do some much-needed reading, and of course, wanking himself silly. He's hooked on it now, and chasing that self-inflicted pleasure has become a part of his daily routine.

He'd left Dominic with the promise that if he ever needed _anything,_ then to give Sam a call. In the intermittent months Sam hadn't heard from him but a few times, and there hadn't been anyone else since then, either. Regardless, he still thinks about him and their time together. Sam had smiled so much the week after that his cheeks were sore. Dean had tried to get details out of him, in multiple ways – Sam hasn't said a single word about it, and won't.

Dom persists in his thoughts even now; the heat in the house had become stifling, and Sam had thought that piddling around in the back shed would help him escape. It's still awful, but not _as_ awful. Since that morning, his only companions have been Bobby's elderly but still hearty metal cooler – stuffed with water and Gatorade - and a welding torch. Bobby had been deconstructing the frame from a 1957 Buick before he left, and Sam had seen no reason to not continue. He's certainly had experience with the equipment before – and it _is_ more constructive than jerking off all day. He'll let the heat seep into his skin and crawl up under his bones, lighting that slow burn of arousal that hasn't gone down in his belly for two weeks straight now.

He's only wearing his boots, jeans, and a white tank top, his hands protected by gloves that go to his elbows. The mask over his face makes his hair stick to his head and the sweat drip even harder down his back. He's covered in dirt and grime and his exposed skin is mapped with dried up, muddy little rivers. Most of the liquid he's taken in that day has been sweated out, his throat permanently parched.

Thing is, it feels cleansing – Sam can't worry about too much else when he's wielding his torch, his concentration completely focused. He's taken the trunk apart and has been going at the roof for the better part of an hour now. Slowly, it's coming apart, becoming something smaller, something that might again have use. If anything, the iron can be made into bullets. It won't be the first time that Bobby's massive backlog of junk and parts has come in handy.

He's so locked in his concentration that he doesn't feel the burn on his left arm right away, caused by a hot fragment of metal that had been thrown when the frame shifted a little too quickly.

Not until does he see the blood dripping with his sweat does he stop.

Sam's eyes go wide and he hurries to turn the acetylene off, the flame from his nozzle disappearing into the shimmering air. He yanks the gloves off and winces, now feeling the pain.

" _Fuck_."

Sam grits his teeth and looks under the workbench for the first-aid kit. It's empty of burn salve, and he makes his way as quickly as he can to the house. His boots make the kitchen floorboards creak, keeping his arm bent upwards as he pulls the kit out and opens it one-handed.

The water is almost too cold as he uses his free hand and teeth to open the salve, making himself calm down. He chides himself for not being more careful and really he should be wearing long sleeves – but it's either this or he passes out from the heat, and Dean and Bobby come back to a fried corpse and likely a good part of the property up in flames.

It's not bad enough to need stiches but holy hell the spot hurts. He washes down a couple painkillers and bandages himself as best he can. He's putting the kit back in its place when he notices at the back of the sink, right under the pipes, a dusty, old book.

"The hell?" Sam crouches down and reaches for it, his curiosity overriding the desire to head back outside. He takes it and sits in the floor, ignoring the dust now clinging to his sweat-damp skin.

Sam's Hindu is rusty but he understands enough of the words – and photos – to recognize this as a copy of the Kama Sutra. No wonder Bobby was hiding this.

"You old perv," Sam mutters to himself. He flips through the pages, absorbed in the colorful art, the elegant wording of how the different positions are described. There's not much in here he's not seen before in the same sort of book; Stanford has a very rare, very detailed copy that Sam had considered to the definitive edition.

Instead, this one has _more._

The section closest to the end details a lot more than he's read in other versions. There are recipes for arousal (Sam snorts at the idea of garlic being used to make someone horny) and improved fertility. It's interesting reading but Sam's interest is purely topical.

Until a loose page, not one part of the book itself, falls out of the back.

It's hand-written on badly yellowed notebook paper; on the left is original Hindu and on right, English, in what Sam doesn't think is Bobby's hand writing. He reads it, his eyes growing wider and wider as he realizes what it is, looking to the heavens as though they've lined up just for him.

It's a cocktail of herbs and substances for multiple orgasms. Sam doesn't want to think about why Bobby has it – but he's sure as hell about to try it out himself.

He carries the list with him to the basement, where Bobby's so-called apothecary resides. He feels himself start to get hard as he walks down the stairs, the piece of paper clutched tightly in his hand. He lays it out flat on the counter, going through the list alphabetically – he's heard of most everything on here and it shouldn't be _that_ harmful to put them all together. If so, it'll be a hell of a way to go out of this world.

Sam tries to steady his hands as he measures out each ingredient, putting them in a small bowel and when finished, grinding them together until it's a powder. His excitement is short lived, however – how the hell is he supposed to take this?"

Truth be told, it smells awful, and even if it didn't it's still power. Downing it neat isn't really an option, and pouring it into water isn't going to do anything but make it only slightly less difficult to consume. He carries it back upstairs, his erection subsiding as he sits down at the table and frowns.

His stomach growls, the eggs and toast he'd eaten for breakfast long gone. Setting aside his dilemma for the moment, he makes himself a ham sandwich and gets his protein power out of the-

"Perfect." Sam congratulates himself and eats his sandwich as he makes his protein shake, mixing in his orgasm cocktail, for lack of a better term, and then right he's about to down it, checks the paper one last time.

There's a quick chant at the bottom of the paper and Sam mouths the words a couple times before he says them out loud. He doesn't _think_ anything will go wrong if he messes up, but better safe then sorry.

He sincerely hopes that his shake turning purple is supposed to happen.

The cocktail makes the shake taste like he's taken in a mouthful of dirt but honestly, it could be worse. He drinks the whole thing, his eyes closed while trying his best to not actually think about the fact that he just put ground up toucan beak into his body. Yeah it was only a small part but it's still disconcerting.

He stands there for a moment and braces for any adverse reactions, just in case.

When nothing happens after five minutes, good or bad, he drinks another glass of water to rinse the taste of powder from his mouth. The paper hadn't said anything about how fast it would work, and Sam shrugs, heading back outside.

Right as he's about to turn the acetylene back on, he feels wetness against his thigh.

It feels too thick to be sweat, and he definitely didn't pee himself. Right as he's about to unbuckle his pants and check the situation out, it hits him.

That slow, low-ebb flame of arousal in his gut is suddenly a roaring, too-hot blaze. It makes Sam's skin feel as though it's too tight and before he's got his pants undone he's rock fucking hard. His fingers are clumsy as he struggles to get his pants undone, sweat making them slip. He pushes them off quickly, taking his underwear with them and he leans against the workbench.

He's dripping precome in constant, thick stream, like someone's turned on a tap and there's no way to shut if off. He's thick like he's got his ring on, the head swollen and angry purple. Sam reaches to touch himself and his fingers are like gas on the fire – he barely strokes himself and precome honest to God squirts out, leaving a tell-tale pattern of splotches from about four feet in front of him to where his pants are down around the tops of his boots.

"Sh…shit." Sam's breathing heavily and sweating even more, barely able to stand touching himself. He's stroking himself loosely, watching the clear slick drip out of him in a constant river. He takes it and coats his cock with it, the noise loud in the quiet, heavy air of the shed. It's like he's on the very edge of climax but then someone's put him on a tightrope of that glorious chasm and there's no chance of him being able to pull himself back up if he falls.

All it takes is stroking up a little too far and touching the head of his cock for Sam to come.

His orgasm nearly knocks him flat on his ass, come spurting out and landing noisily against most every surface in front of Sam – the metal frame, the floor, the row of toolboxes on the opposite side of shed. It lasts and lasts, and Sam doesn't realize he's been holding his breath until it's over.

The mess before him only makes him more turned on.

His fingers are covered in a mix of sweat, come, and precome – he licks them clean, sucking them noisily as he reaches for himself again. The flow of pre hasn't ceased in the slightest and he has to remember to breathe as he teases it out, making a puddle on the floor in front of him.

It's not long before he comes again, and it's just as explosive and heart-stopping as the last, and Sam screams this time.

He has to cling to the workbench to haul his pants up and even then he doesn't try to tuck himself away – this is just so he can walk without as much difficulty back to the house. It's not an easy task in the slightest – his legs feel like rubber that's half-melted and his cock is still ragingly hard. He leaves a trail of precome in his wake, and he has to put his hand over the slit so that he doesn't make as much of a mess upon entering the back door.

The journey up the stairs to his room is arduous, each step making his palm rub against his crazily over-sensitive head. It makes him come again, all over his sheets as he clings _hard_ to the bedpost. He can hear it even over the wheezy pull of the window unit that tries to make his room somewhat habitable – it's only after that that Sam manages to get undressed and off his feet.

There's no sense in reaching for the lube, given how fucking _wet_ he is right now – so grabs the cock ring from the night stand and nearly comes again just putting it on. It's definitely too tight once he's got it on but he just doesn't fucking care, because the sensations racing over his body, travelling synapse to synapse, cell to cell, are completely unlike anything else he's ever felt. His entire being is an erogenous zone, and Sam doesn't really know where to stop.

Three orgasm haven't dulled his responsiveness in the least – he touches his nipples just lightly and he squirts precome again, watching it land across his abs and drip down his sides. He tugs and pinches at both little peaks, their points being found easily under his fingers. His cock drools against his belly, pulsing with each heartbeat. Sam feels dizzy, closing his eyes against the sickly sweet feeling of too much stimulation the overbearing heat that feels like it lives inside him.

He moans to no one but himself, his own touch the sole purpose in his life right now – his mind is too scrambled to even picture a fantasy, after nothing but the next tidal wave of pleasure. His cock throbs, making it feel as though the ring is going to give way at any moment. He wants to curl in on himself but he can't, paralyzed by the blood in his veins and the hot, unrelenting flame of desire that consumes him.

Sam pinches, rolls, and tugs his nipples, driving himself absolutely mad. He swears under his breath and out loud – he's never mouthy when he jerks off but this is too much, too good to not react. He feels himself arch up off the bed, heels dug into the mattress and he comes, God he comes again, his cock spurting all over him, coloring his upper body and face white before it finishes out on his stomach, a mad scatter of spunk covering him.

He has to take his hands off of himself, take ten deep breaths, and then open his eyes before he starts to feel like he's returning to earth. He can feel the come and sweat dripping down his face and off of his body; he looks down and he's flushed scarlet as far as he can see. Still his cock is hard and demands further attention.

Sam shakily runs his fingers through his hair and clears it from his field of vision as he rolls onto his right side and reaches for his latest accoutrement – they had been on their way out of Seattle and Dean had had to make a last minute pit stop – next door had been a dirty bookstore, and Sam had popped in and out with a Fleshlight in hand. It's just a plain orifice but the inside is lined with tiny ridges, and Sam has already broken in it so that it slides right on without resistance. He has to make a few tries at unscrewing the cap – it's still wet with lube from the last time he used it. Not that he needs lube, he just rubs more of the precome still leaking like crazy all over his cock.

As Sam watches it swallow his cock, it takes every ounce of willpower to not scream at the top of his lungs – and even then he's loud.

He nearly comes again when it's halfway down on him – the sleeve is stretched as far as it can comfortable go inside the plastic casing, and it's a fight to get it down to the base. Sam's nearly chewed through his tongue in the process and Christ it's good, _too_ good. He makes himself breathe and re-center as best he can before he continues – whether his body is ready or not, this is going to be his last one. He doesn't have the energy for more.

Shakily he gets to his knees and turns uses his left hand to steady himself against the headboard. His right grips the Fleshlight as tightly as he can, holding it still while he pumps his hips in and out. It's a little too tight so he stops to loosen the opposite end, making the glide in and out much easier. He pictures Dom's mouth (that guy gives one ball-draining blowjob, as Sam had found out) and licks his lips, tasting himself and imagining Dom. He's tempted to take photos to send but hell if he's going to stop this now to find his phone.

He whines as he fucks the toy, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes and running down his cheeks – coming so much has left him drained of energy but he has to do it one more time, just let it arrive as it pleases and ride that last wave to shore. He thrusts faster, harder, deeper, so much so that he nearly knocks the Fleshlight out of his hand.

The feeling in his stomach is like akin to the tide going out before the tidal wave hits – it's fast, scary, and leaves Sam's nerve endings exposed and raw. He opens his eyes and looks down at his cock, fat and red and going in, out, in, out – the culmination of months of re-learning how to touch and love himself, to not let _anyone_ or _anything_ take it away from him. The emotions swell with the wave and he cries for himself because it's so unconditionally _good_ -

His orgasm makes him black out, the Fleshlight ground to the base as he falls back and thrashes, not seeing but feeling it so intensely it's as though some distant piece of heaven has touched him.

It's dark when he wakes up.

Sam opens his eyes slowly, the Fleshlight between his spread legs and laying there with wetness still on its surface. His cock is long soft in the ring and Sam's careful about removing it. He doesn't see any weird bruising or marks from the ring or otherwise, and at last his lust is slaked and he feels pleasantly empty.

He's still smiling as he pulls the sheets off the bed, as naked as can be as he walks downstairs to the laundry room.


End file.
